


not broken (just bent)

by antheeia



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: (kind of) slow burn, Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Avilero is endgame, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, i guess you could call it slow burn, i mean i'm on chapter 7 and they haven't even kissed, non sexual choking, the avilero part at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: Under revisionBrothel!AU written for the kink meme. 
  That shady, dangerous game of lies and seduction was exactly how Angelo ended up in Strega’s web, one so closely and accurately woven, so full of deceptions and falsehood, that not even he was able to lie his way out of it, and at some point he didn't even see the point in trying to escape anymore. He just surrendered, because what was the point in struggling when doing it just made things worse?





	1. the belly of the beast

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [91dayskinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/91dayskinkmeme) collection. 



> Basically: Angelo is broken, Strega is an asshole and Nero is in love.  
>  ~~Not much different from the canon~~. Except there's a lot of sex, consensual and not. 
> 
> I'm carefully tagging everything, please check the tags before reading.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This introduces the relationship between Avilio and Strega.  
> There's sin.

After his whole family was killed, Angelo lost his will to live.

He relived the minutes in which the tragedy had took place again and again in his mind. He saw his father fight for his life desperately, his mother beg, his little brother run away from him. He saw them die. Again and again and again and again.

He always wondered why. Why didn’t he just stop there and let that guy kill him? He remembered his name: Nero. Why did he miss? Why didn’t they find him? Why did he run? Why did he just keep running and running? He went from alley to alley, unseen, unimportant. No one cared, not the people who saw him, an hungry and dirty kid wandering about all alone, empty eyed and hollow, not the dogs on the street, who sniffed him searching for food, looking just as miserable as he did when they realised he didn't have any more than them; not even he himself cared. He seriously considered just giving up and dying. But every time he remembered his father, his mother, his brother, he knew he had to honour their sacrifice, that they they would have wanted him to live on. And, as a kid, not letting his family down was enough of a reason for him not to kill himself.

_I’m not gonna waste this opportunity, Dad…_

But, as he realized growing up, finding a reason not to kill himself was easy, but finding a reason to live? That was way harder. Because what he did wasn’t _living_ ; that was _not dying_ , surviving.

******

When he was still a kid, pick-pocketing was easier. People weren’t wary of him, and almost everyone was an easy prey. But as he got older, as he grew up into a standoffish, silent, almost creepy teenager, approaching people became harder. He had to sharpen his wits. He was lucky enough to grow up with a slender body, ivory skin and silky, raven-black hair that apparently made him pretty attractive to careless or drunk guys in bars, who probably mistook the void in his eyes for drunkenness rather than emptiness and the way he stood too close to them for sexual attraction rather than the intention to rob them. So, when everything else failed, shady bars in Chicago had the perfect preys for Angelo Lagusa — who now called himself Avilio Bruno — and he was the perfect prey for them too. He lied to make his way into their personal spaces, to seduce them, and then he lied to make his way out of their clutches, out of their beds. When he was lucky he made them drink so much that they would bring him home and fall asleep there; sometimes he wasn't careful enough and he got drunk with them and woke up in someone’s bed, half naked, or lying on the ground in some alley, memories of the night before hazy or non existent, probably for the best; sometimes he got to that part of the night too sober, or too disgusted with himself to pretend and smile, and he either tried to fight them and run away, and he didn't always succeed, or he closed himself in his mind and let things happen, telling himself that it was either that or starving on the corner of the street.

And that shady, dangerous game of lies and seduction was exactly how Angelo ended up in Strega’s web, one so closely and accurately woven, so full of deceptions and falsehood, that not even he was able to lie his way out of it, and at some point he didn't even see the point in trying to escape anymore. He just surrendered, because what was the point in struggling when doing it just made things worse?

The day he met Strega, was one of those days Angelo didn't drink enough. He was sitting at the counter of a bar, in the same place he had occupied the day before, and the one before that. He was having a period of small profits, regardless of his efforts. Rich people seemed to be out of town, or maybe his ability to spot them was worsening.

As he sit, silent, gloomy, staring at his half empty glass and contemplating the idea of just going to bed on an empty stomach again, a guy sat next to him. He was dressed in a formal suit, auburn hair framing his face, bright blue eyes emanating self confidence and slyness. Judging from his face and the small wrinkles around his eyes, he must have been in this thirties. He was the one who started talking to Angelo, who wasn’t even really listening to him. He was distracted, and he lazily thought that it was so convenient that everything was just put in his own reach for him to take. And maybe he should have seen that it was even too convenient.

******

“You worked very well today, pet.” Strega’s voice shook him out of his reminiscences. Angelo took a pair of steps forward and he reached in his pockets; he pulled out a pack of money and put them in Strega’s hands, without looking at him.

“I told you I hate that nickname,” Angelo almost growled, but he obstinately kept his eyes pointed to the floor, resisting the urge to swing a glare at him. Strega laughed, his voice sharp and clear, then he took Angelo’s chin between his fingers and raised it until the younger man’s eyes were staring at his own, his defying temperament still unbroken.

“Yes, you told me. And that’s one more reason for me to use it.”

Angelo averted his gaze, giving up on discussing the matter again. He better behave, if he wanted to go home and sleep. Strega wasn’t what one would call a forgiving person.

The older man freed his face and started counting the money, shooting a gaze at his ‘pet’ now and then. When he was sure all the money were there, he took a bill out of the bundle and pushed it against Angelo’s chest, before moving closer to him and slightly bowing his head, brushing his lips against the other’s ear. “I still wonder why the clients like you so much, with that attitude of yours. Or maybe you’re like that only with me, uh?”

Angelo smirked, but didn’t answer. He didn’t hate the clients, he hated Strega, so it was just obvious he wouldn't be as unpleasant towards them as he was towards him. He took the bill out of the man’s hand, checking it. Strega had probably slipped an extra in there, according to his calculations. But he never was that good at math.

“Since I am so special to you, you can keep that.” Angelo turned towards the voice, now behind him. A big smirk sprawled across Strega’s face. That kind of grin was the closest thing to a smile Angelo had ever seen on his face. “But I trust you’ll be more forgiving with me tonight.”

And there it went his much sought night of peaceful sleep.

******

“You have to beg for it, Avilio,” Strega whispered into his ear and then licked it, snickering at him when the younger rocked his hips back toward him. “I want to hear you say it. Come on, do it for me, uh?”

Angelo grinded his teeth, but he didn’t utter a word, stubborn as ever. _Just come already and leave me alone, you goddamned piece of shit._ He was completely naked, his hands were bound to the headboard, his eyes covered with a black, soft cloth. His every sense was heightened, and he was unnerved by every sensation: the rope sinking into his skin, Strega’s warm breath on his neck, his left hand gripping his hips so hard it hurt, his fingers digging into him, moving slowly, occasionally brushing his prostate and leaving him breathless.

It was a competition of self control, a competition Angelo was surely losing.

Strega got off on that, on Avilio losing to him, surrendering, bowing his head and indulging his every whim: because even when he did, he never really gave up, he never broke. Everyone else was so boring and gave up at the first occasion, while Avilio always had the strength to fight back, to keep his dignity, to look him straight in the eyes and tell him ‘no’. And every time, Strega had to start breaking him up again.

The Galassia thrust his fingers deeper and slightly parted them, and the younger man quivered and let out a suffocated moan under his touch.

“Let out your voice, Avilio…” he purred in his ear, a low sound, sticky like some kind of poisonous honey. He sank his teeth in his neck until he left a sign, then he licked and sucked that same spot. “Imagine I am one of your clients. You sing so good for them, you scream and beg… You don't have to be embarrassed with me, you know…”

Strega moved one hand from the other’s hips to grip his hair and pulled them, forcing his head back. He moved the other hand to Avilio’s mouth and shoved two fingers between his lips. He pushed down his tongue, and moved his fingers further, until he reached his throat and was pushed back by his gag reflex. Avilio choked and coughed, drool dripping from his lips, face wet with saliva and tears. Strega reached for his erection and slowly stroked it, while still pulling back his hair. When he kept hearing no sound coming from Avilio’s parted lips, he moved his hand along his thigh and then slapped his cheek, making him moan in response to the unexpected smack.

He wore his big smirk again.

“Look at you, still trying to preserve your dignity while you’re already dripping with precum…” he laughed, admiring the shades of red appearing on the younger man's face.

“Shut up!” growled Avilio, still not giving up, still putting up his useless fight, still struggling in vain.

“Hey, hey, when did I give you permission to say something like that?” Strega wasn't even angry. His tone was mocking, both amused and surprised at the pointlessness of that resistance. He pulled Avilio's hair back a bit more, until a strangled cry escaped his lips. Strega lowered his head and brushed his lips against his temple, over the part covered by the cloth. “Are you trying to tell me I am too good to you? Maybe I should be less forgiving? That's what you want?” he whispered.

Avilio’s body tensed, he clenched his fists and pulled at his bindings, dissent escaping from his throat in the form of a soft cry.

Strega let go of his hair, watching him hang his head between his arms, black locks covering his face. The Galassia put his wet fingers back inside his opening in a swift movement and started fingering him again, smirking at his soft, quiet moaning.

“Avilio, I can stay here all night watching you squirm and whimper. We both know I would enjoy that,” he teased, savouring the pleading sounds coming from the younger. “Or, you can be a good pet and beg for it,” he continued, curling his fingers to brush the right spot and licking his own lips when he heard Avilio panting and groaning in reaction. He touched the spot again and again, while the moans grew in number and volume.

Then he stopped, suddenly, sneering at Avilio’s pale body trembling in frustration, a pleading gasp choking in that snarky mouth of his.

“It's not hard, pet. Just say it: 'Please fuck me, Master',” purred Strega, his tone pleased and victorious already, eager for the moment his black haired toy would give in, would bend and surrender to the inevitable. He could feel his erection twitching in anticipation.

“P-please…” whispered Avilio, a quiet, single sob shaking him for a moment. Strega slowly pushed his erection against his entrance, tightly gripping his hips, pushing his slender fingers into the pale skin until he felt the bones underneath. He teased him, the head of his dick brushing against the twitching ring of muscles.

“Please what, Avilio?” he urged him, licking his own lips again, as if he could taste the despair of the other man.

Strega saw it in the language of his body, before the words actually came out from those chapped, pale lips: the way he just dropped his defences and finally gave in, closing himself into his mind and opening his body to him, his reactions now unhindered by his self control, his hatred and his anger.

“P-please, fuck me… Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got so far, I love you. Please don't hate me?  
> (Oh but please hate Strega.)


	2. unopened at your feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introspective chapter setting up things for the next one.

The rays of the morning sun that filtered through the shutters cast a pale light on the ceiling. Angelo was looking at those bright lines, trying to find the energy to get out of his bed.

His bruised wrists hurt, his back hurt, his head hurt. He hadn’t slept nearly enough to live another day.

_Can you die of drowsiness?_

He wanted to take a shower. He had done so, the night before, only to end up falling asleep on the floor of his bathroom, water pouring over him. He woke up shivering and freezing, closed the water, put a towel around his body and threw himself on the bed. But he still felt filthy. Maybe that filth wasn’t something someone like him could wash away. Besides, taking a shower meant getting out of the bed. Maybe it could wait. Maybe life could wait.

He looked around lazily, barely moving his head. The room was almost completely empty, except for a chair, the bed, a small closet and the old kitchen furniture. It was a mess, dirty clothes lying around, an empty bottle of water standing on the chair, soiled dishes filling the small sink. He kept his home like he kept himself, barely functional, almost empty, unclean.

Was that what his family died for? Did they even die for something? Did their death ever have a sense, a purpose, a reason? Wasn’t it just a cruel trick of Fate?

He closed his eyes again.

_You must be so ashamed of me, Dad._

*****

Nero Vanetti was happy with his life. So many thing could have been better, but so many things could have been worse. He wanted to see the bright side of things, the smile of the people he cared about, the easy life he had the luck to enjoy so far, the food, the alcohol, the music, the warm air.

It was the evening of his sister’s wedding, and Fio was as wonderful as ever. She wore her best smile, she was personally seeing off every guest with kind words and gentle shakes of hands. She was still perfect, after spending a whole day feigning pure and undisturbed happiness for an arranged marriage with such elegance, such refinement, that her own brother had to finally recognise how much she grew up, and what a woman she was.

Her husband was a whole other story. Ronaldo Galassia was a fine man, as much as one in their business could be, but he didn’t seem as smart as he was good-looking. He spent the day showing off, as if he was the only star of the ceremony. Nero didn’t like him. He didn’t like any of those Galassias, how they thought they could just boss them around, and he felt sorry for his sister, who would be forced to live around them.

Ronaldo Galassia was talking to Nero’s little brother. Frate seemed to look up to that stranger way more than he did with his own brother; it was like he hang off Ronaldo’s words, like he wanted to please him just as much as he wanted to please their own father. Of course, Nero and his little brother never got on well together, but he was still jealous of all the attention that should have been his own, and instead was someone else’s; maybe, more than jealousy, it was wounded pride. That feeling seemed to be a constant in his life, with his every effort always overshadowed by someone else’s.

Nero reminded himself of his good intentions, of the optimistic attitude he wanted to take on, so he just smiled at his now brother-in-law and stopped counting the minutes until he could just go to his room and rest.

******

“There’s this guy, my cousin always talks about him. He always says I should try him out, but I am a married man now, you know!” 

Ronaldo had a totally unconvincing innocent smile on his face. He was talking about his cousin Strega and that damned Galassia brothel he run like it was the most honourable source of pride, and about people as if they were bottles of liquor. They were both a bit drunk, but Nero was pretty sure he wasn't drunk enough for that. He regretted being left alone with this man he despised, he hated listening to him and to his bullshit about their family business. The more time he spent with him, the more he pitied his own sister.

“I bet you would like to give it a try, wouldn't you, Nero? I can bring you there sometimes.”

It took him a couple of seconds to actually understand what his brother-in-law was suggesting; he blamed his slowness on the alcohol, but he was actually too busy insulting him in his mind to pay him heed.

“I don't really like the idea to pay for sex,” Nero commented, trying to put on an indifferent expression and to avoid acting too disgusted about it. Maybe he was just a romantic at heart, but he hated the idea to buy someone’s affection, and he didn't understand what could be so good about sex with someone who wasn't even interested in you at all and just wanted your money. He found the idea disheartening, and the practice alienating. Besides, he thought with a pinch of pride, he didn't need to pay someone to get laid.

“Why not? That's how they make money, you know? How would you feel if people didn't like the idea to pay for liquor?” Ronaldo shook his head while he talked, his unfading smile almost taking a jeering quality. Nero bit back an irritated snort and tried to keep himself collected and friendly. He wasn't very successful.

“I just don't like it,” he burst out, and maybe his voice was too loud and his tone too blunt. Fio turned towards them from the other side of the room, shooting Nero a glance. Ronaldo, on his part, seemed awfully amused by his reaction.

“Oh, come on! You don't need to lie to me, we are family now! I wouldn't stop thinking you are a man of honour because of something like that!”

“That's not-” Nero started talking, but he stopped himself right away. Fio was approaching them, and he didn't trust himself to talk calmly enough, not when he was angry and irritable. She would have scolded him if he offended Ronaldo, especially that day, especially after the way Vanno had acted earlier. He took a breath, looked back at Ronaldo and settled with a shrug and a sip from his drink. _Just drop the issue, please_.

“Listen, I have an idea. I’ll bring you there next week, and you will try that guy out. I bet you will like him. But if you don't I’ll pay the night for you.”

Nero was really, really about to hit him. His temper was running dangerously low. What was so difficult to understand about the concept that he just wasn't interested? He had more important business to take care of. Why couldn't the guy accept he couldn't always get what he wanted?

Fio put an hand on her bridegroom’s shoulder, and for a moment, Nero noticed a look of sadness and tiredness in her eyes. But it was just a split second of weakness, as she smiled at them right after that.  “Are you guys having fun?” she had a cheerful and warm voice, but Nero knew that that wasn't her usual self. Ronaldo turned towards her, put his hand on hers and smiled back. He delicately gripped her hand and gently pulled her towards him.

“Oh, yes, honey! We were just exchanging confidences between men, you know?” he kissed her on the cheek, then looked back at Nero with what a seemed an honestly happy smile. “Nero just agreed to hang out with me next week! Your brother really likes me!”

Fio opened her eyes wide. She knew Nero didn't agree with his father on the matter of her marriage, nor with the alliance with the Galassia family in general, whom he considered a bunch of spoiled brats. She looked pleasantly surprised, and an actual smile spread in her face. “He did? I’m so glad you two get along so well! I was afraid you wouldn't like each other!” she said, cheerfulness warming up her voice. She would have done anything to see her family safe and happy, wouldn't she? Nero didn't have the heart to disrupt her happiness. She deserved at least that satisfaction.

“Why would you think that? I am glad Ronaldo is my brother in law. I couldn't ask for anyone better.” He smiled to the couple, stood up and took his jacket. He dug into its pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and his lighter, put one of the cigarettes between his lips and lighted it. 

“I think it's time to leave you two alone now. Goodnight.” he smiled to them, turned his head and walked away.

 _Goddamned Galassias_.

******

Strega looked at the black haired head moving between his thighs with an affectionate warmth in his eyes: he liked that guy. He always wondered if Avilio actually liked him too.

When he first took him in, when he proposed him that line of work, he never thought the results would have been that good; he thought he would hate it, that he would try to get away, he would protest and fight. Avilio was a smart guy and he was what one would call either brave or careless, and now that he knew him better, Strega was sure that he could easily find the way to quit and escape anytime. He wasn't sure why he didn't put up a real fight in the first place. He spit out words with an hateful tone, provoked him and made him angry sometimes, but he didn’t do much more. It was like he didn’t really want to resist him. And yet, Strega knew he had that strong force of will, that he bent but he never broke, that he could have done anything he put his mind on. So why did he stay there?

Strega had one little weakness, when it came to Avilio: he wanted to hope that he stayed because of him.

The Galassia brushed away the black locks covering the younger man’s face, then gripped them firmly, imposing a rhythm. Angelo looked up, right into his eyes, with their almost perpetually teasing gaze; after a moment of hesitation, he adjusted to the pace and took the older man’s whole length in his mouth, until it almost touched the back of his throat. Strega’s hand drifted behind his head, to the shorter hair behind his neck, brushing them, then it cupped his head and held him in place. Angelo swallowed around the erection, gaining an approving moan from the other.

When the Galassia loosened his grip, Angelo moved his head back, took the tip of the erection between his lips and sucked gently. As soon as he heard him groan in appreciation, he put his hand around the base and moved it together with his mouth; when he raised his gaze, he saw that the other’s half-lidded eyes, his lips parted, quiet moans escaping from them. He looked at him while moving his head, and he wished Strega was always that vulnerable. He felt the hand resting on his nape tugging at his hair again, to move his mouth away. He obliged, and kept stroking the length with his hand, until the other man’s dick twitched and came on his face.

Angelo stood up, not even bothering to hide the annoyance he felt. He gathered his shirt, which was resting on a chair behind him.

Strega looked up at him from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

Angelo stopped halfway and gestured towards the door of the bathroom, clearly not in the right mood for pointless questions.

“Stay here for now.”

“It stinks,” replied Angelo, coldly, before he entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

Strega didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a good sign, but maybe if he got angry enough he wouldn’t want to fuck him later that night.

Angelo often had to remind himself why he put up with that whole situation. Yes, now he always had something to eat, clothes to put on, a decent place to live; Strega still had an inexplicable predilection for him, and some nights he talked with him at length about his ambitions, his family and most of their affairs: he knew more about the mafia then he ever hoped or needed to. But was it worth it? Were a little bit of comforts and too little information enough to motivate him to endure the way Strega treated him?

Sometimes he thought that no, that wasn’t enough, but he found no will in himself to do something about it, no strength to think about acting towards a purpose. The only goal he ever felt motivated towards had been finding out why his family was taken away from him. And the only way he could do that, in that moment, was pleasing the Galassia and getting more information out of him.

He looked at his own pale face in the mirror, and he hated it, because it was the face of an unworthy survivor. He washed it, together with his neck and his chest, shivering from the cold water. For a moment there he wished the man outside decided he had enough of him and killed him. He imagined opening the door and seeing a gun pointed to his head, and then the burning heat of a shot fired at point blank range. He imagined how everything would stop, how his memories would disappear, his feelings would die with him. He imagined the void of nothingness. That thought gave him relief but at the same time the fact itself that a similar thought comforted him infuriated him. He had a goal to follow, and he couldn't allow himself to die just yet.

He closed his eyes and moved his lips, silently murmuring that name again. _Nero_. His was the first name he remembered, during one of the first nights he spent alone and cried himself to sleep.

At first, he didn’t recall anything; he woke up for weeks still thinking his family was alive, and then finding himself at his friend Corteo’s place — the first night — and then anywhere else, alone, cold and hungry, hidden in someone’s field, under a tree or in the crops, or — later when he got to the city — in an alley, behind a garbage bin. But then he slowly started putting the pieces together, and within them he found the determination to stay alive.

Besides, what else could he do?

He slowly remembered, and relived those moments again and again until they became the only dream he seemed to be able to have. That name, _Nero_ , was the first clear memory he clung to: a voice calling that name, and a shadowy figure coming for the closet. And from that moment onward, that single word became the sole thread keeping him tied to reality. His surname came later, when he remembered his father talking about the Vanettis, about how his friend had this son a pair of years older than him, called Nero. Angelo never met him, but he remembered his name, and his father’s name, Vincent, the same name his mother screamed, begging for Luce’s life. But by the time he remembered about Vincent, about their surname, about his mother’s screams, Nero’s name had already become like a mantra to him, and that didn’t change.

He reminded himself of Nero Vanetti when he needed to find the courage in himself not to give up, not to die; when he needed to find a reason to go on and survive, he recalled the boy responsible for that, the one who was cruelly unable to take his life, or maybe merciful enough to spare it. 

His eyes still closed, his head lowered, Angelo gripped the sink so tightly that his knuckles were going even paler than they usually were.

He murmured his name again.

_Nero Vanetti._

He would find out enough about him to take his vengeance, that was why he was there.

He put his shirt on, took a deep breath and then another. He opened the door.

Strega was smoking a cigar, looking out the window. He didn't turn to watch him.

“You have a certain client tonight. A _V.I.P._ if you would,” Strega said, a small smirk on his lips. “Nero Vanetti,” he continued.

Angelo blinked, confused for a moment. The sound of the name echoed into his head, his lips repeating it in an all too familiar movement, and while the realisation hit him, a small, joyless smile crept on his face, rising the edges of his mouth. _I’m gonna meet him_. If he had been able to feel something, he would probably have been excited. He lowered his face, hiding his expression, and stood motionless, two steps away from the door he had come out of.

“I talked about him sometimes, you should remember his name.” Strega turned to look at him, moved a pair of steps towards him and stopped when their faces were only some centimetres apart. Angelo kept his head down, his mind completely focused on the idea of finally getting a reward for all that endurance, for his effort to stay alive. The Galassia exhaled a puff of smoke in his face, taking the cigar between his fingers, slightly away from his own lips. He brushed his left hand against the younger’s chin, then he pushed it upwards, forcing Angelo to raise his head.

Strega looked Angelo in the eyes, his piercing gaze filled with bitter amusement. His hand drifted lower and his fingers wrapped around Angelo's pale, slim neck. He lightly but resolutely closed his grip, pushing his thumb against the carotid. At the sudden loss of oxygen in his brain, which made him feel hazy and lightheaded, Angelo tried to push Strega away with both his hands. But, through the haziness of his sight in that moment, Strega looked immensely amused and barely annoyed by his attempt to slip out of his grip. Strega pushed him against the wall and tightened his grip, pressing against Angelo's windpipe, almost completely closing the distance between them, to the point that his lips brushed against Angelo's pale ones, which were slowly going blue; he shifted the cigar between his fingers and pushed the burning end on Angelo’s upper arm.

Angelo's hazy and panicked mind barely registered the pain, and it took him a whole, awfully long second before he pulled away from it.

The Galassia released his grip, and Angelo fell down on the floor, coughing and panting for air, massaging his throat while his thoughts gradually cleared up, the panic from the oxygen deprivation slowly subsiding, leaving place for the burning pain from his arm and the smell of burned skin stinging his nose.

He didn’t look up and directed his angry glare to the floor, clenching his fists and repressing his resentment.

After a couple of second, he slipped back into apathy, irritation retreating back into that horrible part of his mind where all of his feelings seemed to hide in waiting.

He felt Strega’s hand between his hair again, gripping and pulling them to force him to raise his head. He did.

Strega's bright blue eyes were burning with satisfaction, bliss, a light that Angelo only saw in them in moments like that, when he was humiliated and hurt, when he tried to run away someplace in his own mind, and those eyes chained him to reality, prevented him from losing himself, forced him to keep his focus in the present moment. Angelo didn’t look away: he didn’t dare show that weakness.

“I probably don't need to say it, but, if I hear only half a bad thing about you from this guy, I’ll make you regret it. Be a good pet tonight and give him what he wants. You know the consequences if you cross me.”

Angelo didn’t show any sign he had heard his words or understood the message. He just stared at him with empty eyes, a hand squeezing the skin around the cigar burn on his arm, to try and ease the pain.

“I’ll see you later.” Strega smirked and walked away, closing the door behind him.

Angelo glared at the door, feeling a faint but unwanted relief spreading through his body.

“Fuck you,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Nero was a breath of fresh air from Avilio/Angelo's and Strega's warped and dark POV.  
> I am not enthusiast of this chapter, but I like the last part.  
> I hope the characterization is okay. I did my best to convey Angelo's feeling, also with the style of writing.
> 
> And yes, I know we're all waiting for them to meet, everything in its own time.  
> Don't hate me.


	3. only fools rush in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the long awaited meeting (or at least part of it)

Nero was really regretting his decision.

He was sitting in one of the most important Galassia nightclub in Chicago. It was actually a big room in one of their fancy hotels in the business district; there was a small stage with a good live singer, and high quality alcohol in the glasses placed on the table in front of him. Nero was not in the mood to drink, and that was pretty unusual in itself: the reason was that he was alone in the company of the two Galassia cousins, who were so excessively polite and courteous towards him that the insincerity in their words was becoming obvious, and he felt like they were making fun of him for some reason — no, _he knew_ they were. He didn’t want to give them more reasons to and he didn’t feel comfortable in their company, so he just tried to drink as little as possible. He just hoped that the night would be over soon.

“Usually we would let you choose the one you prefer,” was explaining Strega, “but since Ronaldo already chose in your stead…” The older Galassia was smirking, his blue eyes shining with a gloating light, and he looked amused. Or maybe he always looked like that when he showed off how rich he was. He was dressed up in one of his usual suits — Nero had never seen him without one. They were always over the top, too elegant, too expensive-looking, and that night was no exception. At least his brother in law dressed a bit more casually. Strega seemed to think that his wealth would instil respect and fear in others, and maybe it worked with most people, but Nero just found him ridiculous.

“Avilio is one of my favourites,” continued Strega, and evidently the habit to talk about people as if they were dishes from a restaurant menu was a family thing for the Galassias. “I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with him, Vanetti.”

Nero didn’t answer, and drank a sip of liquor from his glass to chase away the need to talk back. He noticed that was the first time they used his name. _Avilio_. It was an unusual name, one he had never heard before. Nero found himself pitying him, a bit like he pitied his sister: that guy surely had a hard life. Nero would have killed himself if he had to spend more than one hour a month with Strega Galassia. But then again, not everyone must have shared that feeling.

A redhead woman approached them. She seemed to be one of the waitresses there, but right after she refilled their drinks, she leaned towards Strega and told him something Nero couldn’t quite make out over the music and the buzzing of chatter all around. Strega nodded and turned to him, smirk still impressed on his face to the point Nero wondered if that was indeed a smirk or it was just his face.

“I apologise again for the wait, Vanetti,” he said, turning to him. “Please follow her. I wish you a lovely night.”

Nero stood up with his best fake smile, and his only thought was that of course it would be a lovely night, since they wouldn't be there. Ronaldo gave him a pat on the shoulder and said something about him having a nice evening that Nero didn’t bother to listen to. He thanked and left, using as little words as possible.

His patience was running low, so finally getting away from the table was a relief. It was difficult to just shut up when everyone in the Galassia family seemed to always act like they had a God-given right on everything. Even with him: they treated him with false regard, but it was painfully obvious that they thought of the Vanetti family as nothing more than a pathetic plaything. They underestimated them, they underestimated _him_. And the worst thing was that his father let them do that. Nero wished nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smile off their faces, to show them what they were capable of, and he knew he would, one day. He was meant to become a Don, and he wasn’t one to be easily controlled. With _him_ leading the Family, they would learn to respect the Vanetti family — to truly respect them, and maybe, why not, even _fear_ them.

_Everything in his own time._

While imagining the faces of the Galassias while he gave them a lesson in humility, Nero had followed the woman through the hotel corridors, until she stopped right next to a room and gave him the key.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Vanetti.”

Nero stared at the key for a moment, but when he raised his gaze, she was already gone. He stood there for a while, uncertain. _Why didn't I make up some excuse? What the fuck am I doing here?_

It was stupid, going there just because Ronaldo insisted on it, but trying to talk him out of it seemed impossible, at least without giving up good manners. The evening would have been bearable if he brought some friend along, like Vanno, or Barbero. But Vanno was a hot-head who hated Ronaldo with a strong passion, and Barbero didn’t like that types of evenings. Besides, he didn’t want his two best friends to know he had let his brother in law win win just because his sister was smiling and Nero didn’t have the guts to tell her the truth. Barbero would have told him he was being as irrational as ever and that was the proof that maybe he wasn’t fit for a role of responsibility, and Vanno would say that happiness based on a lie wasn’t happiness at all.

He fiddled with the key in his hand and took a deep breath.

When he opened the door of the room, the lights were off. The moonlight came in from the open window, and a fresh breeze moved the curtains slightly. Before his gaze settled on the bed, Nero noticed a door, supposedly leading to the bathroom, an armchair and a sofa on the side of the room closer to the window, a probably empty closet in front of the bed and some elegant paintings hanging on the walls. The room was beautiful and it looked clean and comfortable. His curiosity about the place only lasted a couple of seconds though, which were the time it took him to notice the young man sitting in the farthest corner of the bed, back turned to him. As soon as he saw him, he captured the entirety of his attention.

So that was Avilio.

The first thing Nero noticed about him was how pale his skin was. His black hair were cut short only on the back of his neck, where they exposed the fair skin of his nape, that looked almost translucent in contrast with his hair; the rest of his head and face was mostly covered by smooth locks. His hands were thin and just as pale as the rest of his skin, and they were resting on his tights. He was slim, slender, his body wrapped in a button down shirt that looked honestly a bit too loose on him, and a pair of trousers held up by thin suspenders.

When he heard Nero step into the room, Avilio turned towards him. His golden eyes were mesmerising. They instantly reminded him of a stray cat, wary and elusive, and he felt like they were drawing him in, sucking his soul inside a whole different world. It was a completely unknown sensation for him, something that instantly wiped away his regrets about that night from his mind, focusing all his attention on the guy in front of him.

When Avilio — was he meant to know his name or should they introduce themselves? — broke the eye contact and stood up, Nero realised he had been staring, lost in his thoughts, and he was still standing on the threshold of the room.

_Awkward. This is so awkward._

He switched on the lights and locked the door. When he turned back, the other guy was watching him — stealing glances at him, to be exact: he wasn't outright staring. He was notably shorter than him; he looked young, maybe his age, probably less, and there was no trace of innocence in his eyes. They looked like they had seen too much — maybe more that their owner had ever wanted to, speculated Nero, recognising himself in that look. He stepped closer, opened his mouth to introduce himself, but he realised he didn't really know how to begin, he didn't know what was the appropriate thing to say.

_This is too awkward._

“Hello.” It was the other who talked, instead. His tone of voice was neutral, his eyes distant and distracted and the smile he put on didn't look very comforting — it was rather creepy, actually. But Nero inexplicably liked it, so he smiled back.

“Can I start undressing or…?” The inflexion in Avilio’s voice didn't change at all, the emotions behind it still indecipherable. He didn't seem embarrassed, and he acted almost bored, but he was tapping his fingers on his leg, so Nero thought that maybe he was a bit nervous. Only when he saw him sliding the suspenders down his shoulders, he realised he hadn't answered the question.

“No, no! Keep your clothes on,” he uttered abruptly, instinctively gripping Avilio's thin wrist to stop him. Only when he felt the hand in his hold pull away slightly, he realised that maybe he had been inadvertently too forceful. But after a short moment the other man seemed to relax, and didn't rebel to his hold anymore, even if he was looking away, avoiding his gaze.

“… Okay,” said Avilio, his tone of voice now slightly confused.

Nero let go of his hand and took a deep breath. He wasn't used to being unsure of how to act. He usually followed his guts and knew what to do right away, but then again his decisions usually concerned what to do in frenetic and violent unpredictable situations, or diplomatic situations between the mafia families. He was used to that kind of things. But the situation he was in wasn't one he was used to face, and that was probably why he was embarrassed. He felt confused and unable to focus on what he said and did, and it had never happened to him in a long time. _How do you tell a prostitute that you want to pay him to spend the evening talking?_ He did have to convince Ronaldo he fucked the guy: he had no intention to become a walking joke. But at the same time didn't feel any desire to actually take advantage of the young man in front of him. He didn't even like men. Of course Avilio was handsome, he was attractive; but that didn't mean he liked the idea to have sex with him, much less force himself on him.

However, as soon as he realised why he was nervous, he started to calm down. There was no reason to feel like that; it wasn't like him at all. He just had to start talking and everything would work out on its own, and he would decide what to say there and then. Improvising was his speciality after all.

“My name is Nero, nice to meet you.” Nero liked to think that was progress. He still felt awkward and embarrassed but at least he had started talking. And if they had to spend a couple of hours together, he better get comfortable with that soon.

“Avilio,” was the muttered answer. He wasn't much of a talkative one, was he? That wasn't totally unexpected.

“So, how old are you?” he asked, a simple question to start a conversation, or at least that was how he saw it. He sat on the bed and looked up at the pale young man in front of him, which was grimacing.

“Are you one of those people who want them young? Do I look too old for you?” Avilio smirked bitterly and, between the surprise and the confusion, Nero felt the strong impulse to do anything in his power to wipe out that expression — he couldn't say if the reason was because he didn't want to leave such a bad impression, or if there was something different driving him.

“What? Nothing like that!” he replied right away. He considered what to say next, what would better earn the other man’s trust. He had to ask him for a favour after all. “I was just curious ‘cause you look my age. I’m twenty-one, by the way.”

Avilio was still standing, one or two steps away from him. His lips thinned and twisted, and Nero was uncertain of the feelings they were meant to convey. In the end they parted with a sigh.

“Nineteen.”

Judging by that brief conversation, the only answers he should have expected to come out from that mouth for the rest of the night were either snarky remarks or expressionless one word sentences.

He had an interesting night ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing Nero's POV is really a challenge for an angsty child like me


	4. spark me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo meets Nero, but the object of his obsession isn't like he imagined him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter came out _waay_ longer than it was meant to be, and that's why I didn't manage to post it on Wednesday as usual, but I am pretty much satisfied with it and I couldn't really find it in myself to split it in half.
> 
> Part of this is a retelling of the past chapter, but in Angelo's POV.  
> I hope that's not boring.

At first, Angelo thought he was scared.

He felt uneasy, worried about that meeting; a sense of dread was gripping his insides, and he almost felt sick. But he couldn’t call that ‘being scared’, because he couldn’t pinpoint anything he was actually afraid of. He was uncertain on how to define that feeling of apprehension, alertness. It was almost like he was anxious.

No, _he was anxious_ : when he realised he was about to meet what could have been defined the object of his obsession, he felt like his mind was shaken out of its numbness, like a dam collapsed and the feelings it was holding back started flooding his mind.  
His hand was shaking a bit while he contemplated that new spectrum of sensations, colours of his soul he hadn’t experienced in a long time. They weren’t bright ones: he didn’t feel happiness or satisfaction, he didn’t feel gratitude, hope, trust or love; he would probably never feel them again. But that panic, that eager anticipation, that twisted desire to finally see the object of his torment, the one responsible for all that misery, that was something new to him, something he didn’t think he had in him anymore.

 _Nero Vanetti_ — seven years of his life craving that meeting, living because of that name, for that name, seven years of grief, of nightmares, of suicidal attempts thought out in detail but never really brought to reality because he had a mission, something to accomplish, a _name_ in his head that he could never forget — and he had to make him pay, he couldn’t die, he couldn’t let the chance of vengeance pass him by.

Now that the moment had come he didn’t even really know what to do. It wasn’t like he could just kill him, not if he wanted to get to Vincent Vanetti and to the others who were present that night, not if he wanted his revenge to truly matter.

What would he look like? Angelo couldn't help but wonder.

In his nightmares, Nero was nothing but a shadow, a name without a face. He was there, a big silhouette towering over him, a gun in his hand, and he looked like a devil, he smelled like blood and gunfire, he felt cruel and violent. That black, vague shape in his dream, the one that tormented him but never killed him, he blamed his emptiness, his misery on it, and that was the only way he had to cope with his life. Maybe he actually was scared, scared that when the shadow became a face, an exact image, it would become too real to contain all the blame; maybe he was scared that as soon as he killed him he would realise how much mercy there was in the act of sparing his life — even if involuntarily — how much his misery was his own fault. Deep down he knew that, he knew he was the one who didn't get up after the fall, he knew he was the one who chose to lay down on the ground and let life step on him. And yet, it was them, the faceless monsters who killed his family, who took the will to stand up away from him. Their bullets took his happiness, his hope, his trust, his love away; they took it all, and what was he supposed to do? No one would ever be able to walk in the darkness so long they could hold out a hand to him, and he wasn't able to find his way out of it alone. He just stayed there, waiting for his demons to devour him.

All of it, all the pain and suffering, all because of the man who was about to enter that door, the man that was about to touch him, take him, possess him; and he wasn't going to do anything to stop him. _Because it would be meaningless_ , he told himself. _It wouldn't be revenge. I would just get myself in a worse situation. I would just waste my opportunity._

But rationality couldn't do anything against that bitterness in his mouth.

****** 

When he heard him enter the room, Angelo realised he actually wanted to run away.

He didn't want to turn around and see his face, cause he knew he wouldn’t be able to forget it.

He didn’t want to surrender to him, he didn’t want a new memory to torment him, he didn’t want the face he was about to see to be worse than the shadow in his nightmare.

But he turned anyway, and Nero didn't look like a devil, he didn't feel cruel, nor menacing, nor violent. He just stood there, almost like he was dumbstruck, half inside the room, his hand still on the handle of the door. He was tall, but then again most people were if compared to him. His hair were a light shade of brown, and he his beard was cut in a goatee that Angelo thought was pretty ridiculous. His eyes were blue, much like Strega’s, but at the same time as different from the Galassia’s as it could get: they had a warmness in them, a friendly heat, some kind of tenderness that made them completely different from what Angelo expected.

Nero Vanetti's appearance wasn't scary at all like Angelo had imagined, and that caught him off guard. He thought that maybe he misunderstood the man's expression, that maybe he wasn't able to read it. Of course one doesn't have to appear scary to be a cold blooded murderer, but Angelo found it difficult to think that a man with that look on his face could have killed his brother, his mother, his father.

_And yet he did._

Angelo turned away, anxiety and anger swelling in his guts while he tried to ignore the weight of the silence in the room, while he asked himself if maybe the Vanetti was so silent because he recognised him, if he maybe was shocked because he remembered him somehow, if he had a picture of him as a kid somewhere and he had been looking for him ever since, to finish the job; while he asked himself what right did that man have to look so peaceful after what he did to him, after who knows how many other people he killed.

Angelo heard the door closing and stole a glance at Nero while the other man turned on the lights. His eyes ran along the other man's shoulders and down the lines of his back, and Angelo tried to take in that image, to memorise every detail of his appearance: the dark grey of his suit, not excessively elegant and a little worn out, and the way it wrapped his body perfectly, not too loose nor too tight; the way his hair had lighter shades of golden where the yellow glow of the lamp touched them, like honey when the light shines through it; the slow pace of his movements, calculating or maybe faltering; the way he turned back to look at Angelo, his lips parted, his brows furrowed in what looked like curiosity or maybe confusion — _please don't let him recognise me_ — his eyes warm with what should have been a comforting heat, but felt like a fire burning through him.

Angelo took what he could, everything that image allowed him to know, and he impressed it in his memory.

_This person is the cause of my suffering. He is the reason I am alive and my family is dead. Together with his family, he is responsible for the way my life is now. And they will all pay for it._

Nero got closer, he opened his mouth to talk, to say something, but he didn't.

Angelo looked at him now that he was within his reach, and a number of ways to kill him crossed his mind: he could choke him with his bare hands, right there in that moment, just reach out and wrap his hand around his throat and watch as the life slipped through his blue lips, his eyes slowly emptying; he could push him down on the bed, pretend like he was okay with having sex with him, seduce him maybe, make him drop his guard and then suffocate him with a pillow; even better, the guy probably had a gun somewhere, and he could easily steal it, slip it out of his pocket and point it to his head, make him beg for his life like his mother did, make him cry and whisper Angelo's name and then shoot anyway. He could have done that and a lot more.

And yet he didn't.

There was no point in that, no real vengeance, no meaning. Nero wasn’t the only one that had to pay. And before he did pay, Angelo wanted to scream his pain and frustration at him, he wanted Nero to know how his life was, how empty he felt, he wanted him to feel the despair he felt and realise what the Vanetti were responsible of. He wanted Nero to wish he was dead, exactly like he did.

_Would your eyes still be so soft if you knew what you did to me?_

But then, Angelo pushed his feelings away, shoved them back in that part of his mind where they wouldn't bother him, like he always did, he forced a smile and finally broke that awkward silence, because he couldn’t stand it anymore, and the man in front of him seemed embarrassed to the point he probably wouldn’t have done something about it a reasonable time.

_What an idiot._

**“** Hello.” When he said that, a wide, friendly smile opened on Nero’s face, and he had to admit, despite himself, that it was a really sweet smile, likeable, nice to look at. The thought itself that he would be the one to wipe it away from his face one day was already a pleasure.

“Can I start undressing or…?” Angelo meant that as a rhetorical question, but he still waited impatiently for an answer, fingers tapping on his tights, and when the answer didn't come right away he assumed Nero had considered the question rhetorical as well, and just started slipping out of his clothes. The fastest he got that whole matter dealt with, the earlier he could go home.

What he didn't anticipate was the sudden, strong grip around his wrist, stopping him.

“No, no! Keep your clothes on,” Nero blurted out, and if he didn't know better, Angelo could have sworn he heard a panicky note in his voice, for a split moment. At first he winced at the unexpected contact, at the slight pain from the grasp on his bruises, and he almost pulled away, before his rationality got a hold of him again.

“… Okay,” he answered, not bothering to hide his questioning tone. _What the hell?_

“My name is Nero, nice to meet you,” began the Vanetti, after letting go of his wrist, and Angelo almost laughed at him. _Who the hell cares for introductions? They must have told you my name already, I know yours, just fuck me and get this over with._ He thought that was ridiculous, but he indulged him anyway.

“Avilio.”

“So, how old are you?” Nero asked while sitting down on the bed, looking more relaxed, even if the expression on his face was still tense and his tone still a bit uncertain.

 _Why do you care?_ Angelo couldn’t say if he hated the question because he wanted this whole thing to be over as soon as possible, or if he did because of the hidden meanings he found behind it, but whatever the truth was, it didn’t really matter, because he was unable to hide his disgust either way.

“Are you one of those people who want them young? Do I look too old for you?” he growled, a challenging smirk bending his lips upwards. Some twisted, dark part of him rejoiced at the idea that —  _you see?_ — after all, Nero was probably a horrible person, despite his appearance. Exactly like he expected — or maybe like he _wanted_?

And yet the confused expression on Nero’s face didn’t seem to confirm his suspects, and neither did the surprised and slightly panicked look in his eyes.

“What? Nothing like that!” the man sitting in front of him protested, almost too loudly for his tastes, then his voice softened again. “I was just curious ‘cause you look my age. I’m twenty-one, by the way.”

The question flashed in his mind again, and almost escaped his lips: _what the hell do you care?_ It had never happened to him before, a client using his time to ask things about him, like they were getting to know each other as friends, like they were actually, really interested in something about him that wasn’t his body. Maybe, for some reason totally foreign to him, Nero was trying to be polite, friendly even? He sighed.

“Nineteen,” he grunted, angry at the older man’s kind attitude, at his gentle expression and at the innocent look on his face. He had met Nero Vanetti less than ten minutes before and he wanted him out of his life immediately: he was confusing. He was confusing, stupid and ridiculous, and he preferred to think of him as the cruel, faceless shadow in his mind rather than the real person sitting before him, an insufferable idiot whose insufferable character made it really hard for Angelo not to let his feelings and thoughts seep in through his mask. But he couldn’t kill a shadow, and an idiot was meant to be die easily.

He took a deep breath.

“Look, don't worry about formalities. I won't be offended if you skip them. I know you don't care,” he offered, voicing his speculations, hoping to speed things up. But when he said that, Nero’s eyes darted towards him, and for a short while they were actually serious, and he could see them darkening and losing part of their forgiving warmth.

“I _do_ care,” the Vanetti retorted, and his voice was, for the first time that night, confident and firm, with no sign of hesitation. It was almost like he was offended.

 _Okay, then you care, whatever._ I _don’t._ Angelo shrugged the issue off and didn’t add anything.

Nero was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his side, intensely staring at him. For someone who was so _desperately_ trying to act polite and friendly, that was kind of _rude_ , and Angelo could tell that even without actually knowing what manners were. It was starting to get on his nerves, that gaze, because it bore no resemblance to the way anyone ever looked at him in his life — it wasn’t exactly like the older man was admiring his body, his look didn’t have that dark stickiness of lust, and it wasn’t a look of pity nor hate, it wasn’t sweet nor affectionate. It was like a slow caress, a delicate hug, like something he didn’t really understand the meaning of, something he hadn’t really seen before, and it was making him feel awkward. He hated it.

Angelo was tired to think, and he blamed Nero for making him so foolishly emotional, while he struggled to put his speculations away, to stop trying to understand what the other man thought, what he wanted — why did it feel so important to understand that? — and to just forget himself again, pretending he was someone else until he was alone, until he could make sense of everything.

He averted his gaze and just shut off his mind. He just did what he always did, like it was the way his body was meant to move by default, like he wasn’t really suited to do anything besides that. He closed the distance between their bodies, put his arms on Nero’s shoulders, leaning on him while he sat astride his legs, and slid an hand between the two of them, caressing the other man’s stomach and slowly reaching down to his crotch.

Nero smelled nice: underneath the acrid odor of cigarette and the sugary one from alcohol, his skin had a sweet but rusty smell which had something strangely familiar about it — no, maybe not _familiar_ , but comforting, almost soothing. Angelo liked it, although he was always fussy about odours, and he thought that maybe if he closed his eyes he could really try to forget for a while, and the idea was disgusting, but also so tempting.

But then his chain of thoughts suddenly came to an halt when a callous grasp closed on his wrist, _again_ , moving his hand away from the hardness in the older man’s pants.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Nero’s voice was so close this time, and his slightly hitching breath tasted like the fruity liquor they served downstairs.

“What do you think I am doing?”

Angelo was confused, _again_.

“Please, Avilio. Stop right there,” Nero’s voice was a bit strained, like he was forcing the words out of his throat, but the way he said his name captured Angelo’s attention, and he relaxed a bit, his right hand now hanging on his side while the other was still wrapped around the Vanetti’s shoulder, to keep him balanced.

“I don't understand,” Angelo said, and he probably hadn’t been so honest in years as he was when he uttered that specific sentence.

“I don't really… want to have sex,” Nero sputtered, averting his gaze, and Angelo was even more perplexed. The older man’s pupils were dilated, his breath heavy, he was obviously half hard in his pants — what did he mean he didn’t want to have sex? Maybe he was having afterthoughts, maybe he had a girlfriend or something, it wasn’t uncommon; but no one in his experience had ever worded it like _that_.

“You want a blow job, then?” proposed Angelo, because it had worked before — somehow it seemed that, for some men, oral sex wasn’t as much a betrayal to their girlfriend or wife as it was fucking another man’s ass. It’s not like he minded: as long as it worked for them and they paid him, every moral inconsistency was welcome. But apparently, Nero wasn’t a fan of that either, as he seemed even more reluctant.

“A-a blo–? No!” he stuttered, but there was no hesitation in his refusal. Angelo didn’t think someone could get more strange and confusing than that, but when a hand — firm, but warm and gentle — gingerly pushed him away, he stood up and stepped away from the other man.

“Then… what do you want?” he asked, hesitantly, while a lot of strange, kinky images crossed his mind. Admittedly, he didn’t know what to expect, and that was starting to seriously worry him — at least until he saw Nero blushing. It wasn’t a an obvious blush, more like a slight shade of pink colouring his cheeks and his ears, but Angelo couldn’t help but notice it, and he almost laughed at it, or maybe at himself and his thoughts.

Nero didn’t reply to his question, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes instead.

“Do you want one?” he asked, holding the pack out to him, while his face slowly went back to a paler shade. _No, I don’t want your cigarette, I want to know why the hell you're here_. Then a thought crossed his mind, and he remembered one of the girls there talking about a similar situation, and he almost burst out laughing at the idea, to the point he didn’t even think to bite his tongue and find a delicate way to ask.

“Are you impotent or something?” he said, a honestly amused smile spreading on his face, while surprise and then a sulky grimace showed on the other’s.

“No!” Nero pouted and his ears gained back their rosy tone.

"You suffer from premature ejaculation?" inquired Angelo, more for his own amusement that for the sake of curiosity.

"Absolutely not!" Nero protested, and he almost sounded offended.

“Are you sure?” he teased, smirking.

“Of course I am sure!” insisted Nero, and he really was blushing at that point. Angelo couldn’t help but think that, confronted with the man he imagined Nero Vanetti to be, the one in front of him could have been defined even _cute_ — if he hadn’t took part in the cold blooded murder of his whole family, that is.

Angelo let out a quiet chuckle, and only when he heard his own unfamiliar muffled laugh he realised that was the first time he had laughed in seven years. He thinned his lips, bitterness staining that fleeting moment of lightheartedness, and he looked at the cause of that amusement. Nero’s ears were still burning, but his face was so lively and his smile so chirpy that Angelo thought that maybe, as a gesture of gratitude, he could _forgive his existence_ for a night.

Only for a night.

“Look, I just want to talk,” the Vanetti added after a while, lighting up a cigarette between his lips, inhaling sharply, then rolling it between his fingers while he breathed out the smoke.

Angelo sat beside him, sighing.

“What do you want to talk about?”

He stole a glance at him: Nero’s eyes slowly wandered through the room, almost lazily, but accurately avoiding Angelo’s; his left hand’s fingers sometimes brushed the sheets delicately, fiddling with them, and it didn’t look like it was made on purpose, but unconsciously, like he was deep in thought.

“Anything, really,” was Nero’s answer, after he exhaled another cloud of smoke. “I got cornered in this situation and now I have to pretend I fucked you and I liked it. Are you okay with that?” he explained, and Angelo was glad he was finally explaining his behaviour, but he still didn’t really understand it. _He got cornered into… going to a brothel?_

“Then why don't we just fuck, instead of pretending?” offered Angelo, still trying to wrap his head around that whole matter, which looked so stupid and absurd in his eyes. Was he afraid he wouldn’t like it? Maybe he didn’t like men. But then again he was excited before, and besides, it wasn’t like they forced him to choose a man.

“Because I don't want to,” shrugged Nero, simply, and as much as that wasn't really an answer, Angelo couldn't really find something wrong with it.

“I still say you are impotent,” he teased, his face as inexpressive as ever, and yet somehow Nero knew he was joking, or at least he guessed as much, because he didn't take it seriously.

“I assure you that’s not the case, Avilio!” Nero protested jokingly, and he laughed, his voice vibrant and lively, his smile bright and careless, and Angelo smiled too, and it was a warm smile for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the happier notes are appreciated, we need that sometimes.
> 
> A big **thank you** to everyone who is following and supporting this fic, my great friends of the HellChat and everyone who leaves comments and kudos!  
>  It'll be thanks to you too if I manage to actually finish this fic~  
> See you next week!


	5. sugar and poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should expect it, but I’ll warn you anyway.  
> This chapter is dark. You have been warned ( ~~also sorry about that~~ ) and, ew, enjoy? I guess??  
> When you finish it you’ll understand why it took me so long to write it, it was pure agony, but I’m still sorry for being late on it.
> 
> On a side note, I changed the « » in “ ” cause one of you in the comments pointed out that the “arrows” are not used in English.  
> I’ll change them in the other chapters right after I post this one :)

Angelo was leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette between his lips. From the other side of the room, a pair of cold blue eyes were staring at him. He fidgeted with the lighter a bit, hesitating before he ignited it, moving the small flame near the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled, the familiar bitterness of the smoke filled his mouth and a slight relief spread in his body. He put the lighter away in his pocket, and he looked at Strega once again while he breathed out the smoke. The Galassia was sitting behind his desk, reading some documents, and he still hadn't moved from his chair nor said anything since one of his underling — Vito, or maybe Franco? He didn't care enough to remember — brought Angelo there and then stood near the door, apparently waiting for something.

Strega could stay silent all night, for all Angelo cared; and yet he wished he wouldn't. He wished he would let him go home, let him be alone. It had be a long night, a hard one, and he had so many thing to make sense of, so many thoughts and fears pressing on his mind and it was so hard to keep them away.

 _“Tell me about you,”_ he was the one to say that to Nero, earlier that night, and it was so uncharacteristic of him, like he was drunk of that slight laughter, that indiscernible atmosphere of peace that shut his mind off for real, that obliterated his fear, sent away his sadness. For a split moment it had been like being a kid again — until he remembered he wasn’t worthy of it, he wasn’t meant to smile, he wasn’t allowed to put his past aside, not even for a moment. And above all, he didn’t have the right to do any of that in front of _him_ — _because of him_. It had been just a split second, a small chuckle, and yet he couldn’t forgive himself.

Nero didn’t know any of those thoughts, and he just smiled and looked outside, and he talked: about himself, his friend, his family, his enemies. Angelo thought he was a stupid at first, giving out so much information about himself to someone who worked for the Family he apparently hated so much. But while he listened, he realised that Nero never let anything that was really relevant slip out of his mouth, anything that could be useful to someone who wanted information was omitted, and instead he went into details about a lot of useless things, insignificant aspects, nostalgic memories. He talked about his past, about his father, who didn’t trust him because he screwed up on his first job, about his brother, with whom he didn’t get along very well, his sister, who got married to Strega’s cousin some days before. He mentioned he was meant to become Don when his father retired, but no one in his family agreed with his positions or supported his decisions, and he was scared that when his father passed out, he and his brother would have to fight to establish who would take his place, and he didn’t want that to happen. Then he talked about his childhood, about his favourite place when he was little, about his best friend, about that girl he liked when he was eight, about the candies he liked the most — fudge candies — and he shared only with her.

Angelo winced at the realisation that he remembered all of those useless things, but then again he had paid lot of attention to everything Nero said, in the hope he would learn something useful for himself. Was that what people usually talked about with each other? Was that how you got to know someone else? Did you need all that useless information? Angelo didn’t know the answers to those questions, and he really hadn’t got anyone to ask for them. And yet he wondered if he would have known the answer himself in another life, one in which that night never happened, one in which he remembered his twelfth birthday because Luce and him bickered about who would get the last slice of cake and his father ate it in the end; maybe in that life, he would have been used to tell stories about himself to other people, he would have known if all the things Nero said were too personal to share with someone like him, or if it was normal for him to tell them. At first, Nero tried to ask him questions about his past, but after the third time Angelo dismissed him with a curt ‘I don’t know’, he just gave up; maybe in that other life, Angelo would have known how to answer.

“So, what do you think? Will he come back?” Strega’s voice shook him out of his recollection, back to a reality which was somehow comforting: it didn’t have so many questions, it wasn't confusing and unfamiliar. It was a world he was able to navigate in without desperately floundering like a drowning man. He knew how to deal with Strega, and even if knowing it didn’t make it any easier or any less humiliating, at least he felt like he was in control of himself and of a minimal portion of would happen.

Angelo put out the finished cigarette and threw the butt in the ashtray on the table.

“Who?”

“Vanetti, of course. Was he satisfied with you?” Strega finally stood up and circled the desk, moving towards him.

“How would I know?” Angelo raised his gaze to meet the Galassia’s. While he got closer, Strega had that smirk on his face, the one he wore when he planned things that were particularly unpleasant. He stood in front of him, leaning over him to take his chin between his thin fingers.

“Knowing is your job.” pointed out Strega, hand cupping the younger man’s face, piercing gaze fixed on him, and Angelo almost pushed him away, and he had to lower his gaze because Strega’s warm breath was on his skin and on his lips, and he just felt so uncharacteristically defenceless and fragile.

“I thought my job was to take it up my ass,” Angelo replied bitterly, angry at himself for his inability to deal with this rationally, for just falling for that man’s provocations again and again, and he was already regretting his short-temper when Strega laughed coldly.

“Will you ever stop defying me, Avilio?” was the older man’s comment, while he stepped away from him to sit on the sofa. He didn’t seem bothered in the least by the younger man’s attitude, but Angelo knew he was, he knew that he was just acting unaffected for the benefit of the other man in the room. He felt those blue eyes slipping under his clothes, under his skin, and he knew in his mind Strega was already plotting how to make him regret it this time. It was almost admirable, how he continuously came up with new ways to try and break him, how he was so focused on himself and his own satisfaction he didn't even notice that the only reason he couldn't break him was because there was nothing else to break.

Some parts of Angelo wanted to resist, to oppose the useless pain and humiliation, and sometimes he tried to, but he always ended up asking himself what was the point. Didn’t he deserve it, after all? His will to live earned him that life, and wasn’t that suffering just what he deserved for going against fate, for not accepting death, for his thirst for revenge?

And yet he couldn’t always control himself, and sometimes his anger toward the world that had always been _so cruel_ got the better of him, of his rationality, of his emptiness, and he couldn’t shut up, he couldn’t keep everything inside, not when everyone around him just kept treating him like he didn’t matter, like he was just a toy for their amusement. Maybe he wasn’t good at anything, but he had a goal, an objective, and they wouldn’t think he was irrelevant if they knew what it was.

 _Stop defying Strega? Not after all of this_.

“I don’t think I will,” he answered, and it was the truth, because he was also waiting for the day he finished what he needed to do, the day he would be free from his identity and from the burden to stay alive, the day Angelo Lagusa would finally find his peace, and he could afford to make the Galassia pay too, his last act as Avilio Bruno, his last _fuck you_ to the world.

If Strega’s gaze betrayed his anger, his small chuckle, his voice and his words didn't.

“I like your attitude,” he said, a flirty tone in his voice, and Angelo had the impression that even though it made him angry, Strega really did it like when he challenged him. “But I am not sure my friend Franco cares for it.”

As if the guy was waiting for for those words — as if they were meant to give him permission to move — a pair of strong arms closed around Angelo, one hand grasping his right wrist, the other holding a cold knife to his throat. It was so sudden, so unexpected — had he been so distracted he didn't even hear the men stepping closer?

“Take your hands off me,” Angelo hissed, and the mask was cracking, and his anger was showing even more now, creeping out of his eyes and his lips like smoke. He felt the edge of the knife pressing against his skin, scraping it, and the bite of the blade slightly cutting his skin.

“Shut up,” Strega’s voice was unusually loud, with no trace of its usual playfulness, and Angelo felt paralysed, with no way out, once again pushed in the corner, and wasn’t he always trapped like that?

“Tell me, pet, do you want to die so bad?” Strega’s voice was now calm again, with that rotten sweetness about it that felt viscous and disgusting, that stuck to Angelo’s ears until he felt like he would go mad. 

_Yes, I do, but not by your hand._

“You wouldn't kill me,” he growled, and he unsuccessfully tried to push the hand holding the knife away from his throat, and he felt the man behind him quietly giggle at his vain attempts to free himself, but still not saying a word.

Strega chuckled too. “That’s not an answer, and it’s not true. When I say you’re mine, I mean it. Your life is mine and I’ll do what I want with it,” he retorted, and Angelo wanted to say he never agreed to any of that, that he never accepted to become anyone’s property and he never would, but Strega looked like he was enjoying that whole thing way too much, and it dawned on him that maybe he had been fooling himself, maybe he never was valuable to the Galassia in any way, maybe he really didn’t matter, not even as a plaything.

Strega took Angelo's chin in his hand once again, forcibly raising his head, his fingertips sinking into the skin with way more firmness than necessary, his eyes staring right into Angelo's hazel ones which now burned with anger and frustration, and if they had been alone, the Galassia would have surely pointed out how they were wet, as if he was holding back on his tears, but for whatever reason, he decided to spare him. “I’ll ask again: do you want to die?” whispered Strega, and his warm breath felt like fire on Angelo’s skin, and the younger man lowered his burning gaze, closed his eyes, and he felt like was falling back even deeper in his own dark pit.

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?” There was a jeering smile on Strega’s face, and Angelo’s eyes were closed again, his lips twisted in the effort not to show disgust, not to answer like he wanted to, not this time, not with his life at stake.

_I’ll kill you. I’ll kill the Vanettis, and then I’ll kill you, and then whoever manages to survive the hell I’ll bring down on you can do what he wants to me, but that won’t be you, I swear you’ll die, I’ll swear I’ll stare at your empty lifeless eyes and I will be the one who’ll laugh, then._

“No, Master,” he surrendered, but only he knew that his voice wasn’t shaking from the urge to cry, but from the one to scream, to take that knife into his hand and to stab both of them with it again and again, and leave them bleeding on the floor.

“Good.” Strega loosened his grip and stepped back, and the man behind him also relaxed, moving the knife away from his throat, but he was still restraining him, and the flat of the blade rested on his chest, still too close to him. “Vanetti said he was not interested in coming back here. I was disappointed,” stated Strega, and he paused, maybe to let what he had just said be completely understood. But the only thing Angelo could get out of that sentence was that he had hoped he could get something out of that meeting and he didn’t, and now he wouldn’t even get to see Nero again, and he had burned the only good chance he had gotten.

“Now, of course that means either someone didn’t do his work, or Vanetti is an idiot. I hope it’s the second. What do you say?”

“I did what he asked.” Angelo forced himself to say, and he was speaking the truth, and if anyone knew how much he wished to meet the Vanetti again — _to meet him and make sure no one else could ever meet him again_ — they would have understood how furious he was at himself, at Nero, at Strega, at everything.

“Of course you did. And will you do the same for my friend here?”

Angelo didn’t raise his gaze, and he really didn’t want to answer, because what choice did he have? What was even the point of asking? But of course he had to say it out loud, of course this night would never be over, of course he had to be too proud — or too coward — to let them just kill him and end this agony.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah... I'm sorry, I guess.  
> *hides under a rock*


	6. thinking out loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have passed.  
> Some introspection. We also have Fio, and brotherly fluff.

Nero’s room was way more spacious than he needed it to be. As a kid, he liked to have a lot of space to play into, but when Fio and Frate didn’t want to play with him — which was the case most of the time — he always felt sad in that huge, empty room. Now that he was a grown up man he still couldn't see the advantages of having so much space for himself and no one to share it with, and he still hated how alone it made him feel in moments like that.

Lately, that feeling of loneliness felt like it was amplified, bigger than ever, as he felt like he was missing something. He often found himself thinking back to that night at the brothel, two weeks before, and how natural it had felt to share his thoughts with Avilio. Was it how talking to a friend was supposed to be? He didn’t feel that comfortable with Vanno, nor with Barbero, not anymore at least; he was their boss after all, and there were some parts of him he really shouldn’t have shown to them, some weaknesses he wasn’t allowed to have in their eyes. But with Avilio he didn’t worry about that, he didn’t feel the need, and after half an hour he already felt at ease, and it was so right and simple that he felt scared thinking about it, so irrational that he wanted to run away. And that was exactly what he did, even if he kept telling himself he just didn’t want to give Strega the satisfaction to know Nero appreciated something that he considered his property.

He wasn’t sleeping well, and he woke up in the middle of the night after strange nightmares. In his dreams he was running from the light towards a dark abyss, and he run and run, and not because he was scared: he was looking for something, for _someone_ , and he needed to hurry or that person he was looking for would be lost forever. He went through dark and cold woods, walked through the snow, and there was less and less light, until he couldn’t see anything anymore and he walked, fumbling to find the right direction. _I know he’s here_ , he thought, _I know I’ll find him_. But he didn’t find him.

 _I want to meet him again_ , he thought when he woke up to that dream for the eighth time in two weeks, and he didn’t know the question, but he knew Avilio was the answer.

******

Later that day, Nero sat on the armchair behind his desk, facing the window, he poured himself another glass of liquor and stared outside for a while. It was almost night, the sky was red and cloudy, and it looked like it would rain soon.

 _It was my fault_.

He knew that was true. He was the one to give Vanno and Tronco the instructions to steal from Orco, to try and get back that part of their turf, and it was his responsibility if Tronco was dead. He was the one to give Vanno permission to take revenge for that death, and it was his responsibility if the new man in the Orco family — his name was Fango, apparently — was now after his best friend.

_Revenge doesn’t ever solve anything, does it?_

He gave his permission to begin of a cycle of violence and blood, of murders and death, and he knew that was part of his job, that he couldn’t do otherwise with the pride of his family at stake, but he was still put in front a choice: the choice to say no, to give up pride, to go against his ideals for the sake of his hopes. No one could say which was the right choice.

The rest of his family was discussing Vanno’s future. Nero wasn’t in there, even if he had never missed one of those family meetings in his life. His father called him before they started and he asked him — _“consider it as a favour to me”_ , he said — to stay in his room, like he was a child, like he couldn’t act like a rational adult, like he couldn’t be trusted. They wouldn’t kick him out if he went there, of course, but Nero knew he wasn’t welcome, so he did what his father asked. The Galassias were pressing them to cease conflicts with the Orcos and Nero had gone against his family’s opinion with his decision, but then again it was his family who had entrusted him with the task of managing the liquor imports and their distribution. They told him it was his responsibility and he should do his best, so he did his best, and he protected their pride. And yet, as always, his best was not right, not enough.

Someone knocked on the door, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turned to look in the direction of the entrance, hoping it was uncle Ganzo bringing news about the meeting. But it was Fio’s face the one to appear through the crack in the door.

“Fio? You’re here too?”

Fio came inside, closing the door behind her. She had a strict expression on her face, one she wore only when she was really crossed, but she also looked sad, and the skin around her eyes was red like she had been crying.

“Do you know what they are talking about, Nero?” she whispered, voice cracking in a whimper at the end, her lips twitching in a way that made it look like she was trying really hard not to scream at him. Nero looked away, nodding slowly.

“They are deciding what to do with Vanno’s life. This is not what I gave up my happiness for!” her tone of voice was higher now, but not enough to be defined screaming.

Nero still didn’t look at her face, and he directed his gaze back to the view outside the window. He took a sip from the glass to calm himself down, but he could feel her gaze piercing through him, and he didn’t want to test her patience more than he needed to.

“You think I don’t care about him?” he said, slightly irritated, but when he continued talking, after a short breath, he resorted to a calm and apologizing tone. “It was Vanno who asked me to be the one to do it. He said he would have been careful, that no one would see him. It was a matter of honour for him.”

But she was right: she sacrificed herself for the sake of the family, to be sure they could live peacefully, to make sure they didn’t all die in some stupid feud, but of course Nero and Vanno had to act on a whim and ruin that. At least that must have been her opinion.

“But they did see him! And what if, in that room, right now, they decide the peace with the Orcos is worth more than his life? Who should I blame then? His _honour_? You?” Fio’s voice cracked again as a couple of lone tears rolled down her cheeks. Nero stood up and pulled her into a tight hug, hiding his face in the crook of her neck, into her smell that always felt familiar and comforting like the one of their mother. Fio was surprised at first, and she didn’t return the hug right away, but she didn’t oppose to it either. Then Nero raised his head to kiss her wet cheek, and he gently wiped her tears away.

“By the time they decide that, Vanno will already be too far away,” Nero whispered, and he gave her a small, apologetic smile. Her eyes widened in surprise as she processed the news that yes, Vanno would hopefully be safe, no one was taking him away, not yet, cause he was already running away to somewhere he could probably be safe for the moment; she smiled back, and more tears followed the ones her brother had wiped. She hit his chest with her fists once, twice, three times, but Nero held her closer, and she buried her face in his chest, finally pulling him in a shaky hug.

They stayed like that for a while, Nero’s hand slowly stroking her back, comforting her, while Fio calmed down between his arms. He looked outside of the window again, his mind far away, and he wished someone could comfort him in the same way, that someone could just listen to what he had to say without pushing their own opinions and goals on him. Someone he could treat as equal, someone he didn’t have to obey and look up to, but someone who didn’t need to obey and look up to him either. He never had someone like that in his life, and he wondered if he ever would get to meet someone like that.

 _Or maybe I met him already_.

Fio broke away from his soft embrace, brushing away her tears with her thumbs, and she took a deep breath. She looked at Nero, and she had that worried expression that Nero thought made her look less like his little sister, and more like the older one, or like his mother.

“What about you? What if they blame you?” she asked, and Nero smiled, simply because he was happy she was so worried about all of them, that she loved her family so dearly.

“I’ll be okay, don’t worry about it,” Nero comforted her, admittedly with a very weak reassurance, and went back to sit in his chair.

Would he really be okay? He didn’t know that, he couldn’t really be sure. He wanted to trust his family, his father, his brother, his uncle, trust that they would find the courage to say no when needed, trust them to at least have the guts to stand up to Don Orco, to the Galassias, to do it at least for his sake. He was sure his father would.

“I need to go.” Fio interrupted his train of thoughts again when she brushed the back of his hand with her own, softly, before heading towards the door. “Take care of yourself Nero, you don’t look like you’re sleeping much.”

Nero smiled and nodded, but didn’t elaborate on the matter. “See you next time, sis.”

She left the room with a concerned but loving smile, and closed the door behind her.

******

It was very late at night, and Angelo was walking out of the backdoor of the hotel. He shivered when he got outside and stopped to wrap himself tighter in his slightly oversized coat and rub his hands together to warm them up a little. It was a pretty cold autumn night, and the air was damp, like it had just stopped raining. Angelo thought absent-mindedly that he should have brought his hat.

Hands in his pockets, he headed out of the alley in the main street, which was almost empty in that time of day. Chicago’s business district was unbearably lively during office work hours, but by that time of the night it almost looked like a ghost town. Angelo turned to look at the front of the hotel, at the elegant entrance he never used, and he noticed a familiar figure sitting on a bench not far from him, in front of the building. The road was almost completely empty, and if someone happened to be walking by, they were hurrying back home or to their hotel rooms; but the man Angelo noticed was sitting down on a bench, alone, and didn’t seem to have any intention to move. He was wearing a long dark coat and a black fedora, which looked both a bit wet, like he had been standing in the rain; he was looking downward, his face in the shadows. Even if they weren’t close, his figure looked awfully familiar.

Angelo stepped closer, telling himself that he was becoming seriously obsessed — _that guy is not Nero Vanetti, stop seeing him everywhere_ — but when he saw the goatee, his mind froze for a second, and a voice inside his head said that that maybe he wasn't just imagining things this time. But after two weeks of seeing ghosts, it was difficult to believe this wasn’t another trick that his mind was playing on him — and if seeing the face of his father and mother in a couple of strangers passing by was devastating, if seeing the face of his brother in a little cute child running behind them was horrible, that still wasn’t as heartwrenching as spending his time in a strange mood that swayed from paranoia to hope and back, while he saw the face of his obsession — a face he knew too damn well to have seen it just once — everywhere. He wasn’t alone even in his dreams, and maybe this was his last step towards complete insanity.

 _But maybe it’s really him_ — that’s what he said to himself every time.

He got close without really realising what he was doing, his body moving in a daze, and the man raised his head to look up at him and it really was Nero: his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were slightly glazed, but as soon as he recognised the person in front of him, Nero’s lips curled up and his eyes went wide open in pleased surprise.

“Avilio!” he said loudly, and he stood up abruptly, as Angelo almost jumped back, feeling awkward and regretting having ever noticed him. Judging by the smell of his breath, he had been drinking.

“I was thinking about you...” added the older man, staring at him like there was something about his appearance that bothered him. Angelo thought he was probably spluttering bullshit and there was really no particular meaning in what he said — whatever he meant by saying he was thinking about him, Angelo really preferred not to know; but he couldn’t really hide his annoyance, and neither he wanted to.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, bluntly, almost aggressively.

At the question, Nero looked away, towards the hotel and then back to him. He seemed to be considering what to say, weighing the answer, or maybe he just didn't know what to say. After a bit of consideration, Nero cryptically answered with a plain “Thinking,” his hands sinking into the pockets of his coat as he moved a pair of steps toward the younger man. Avilio looked almost offended, his lips thinned in a bitter grimace and his eyes burning with what the Vanetti could have interpreted as hate, if he thought the other man had a reason to actually hate him.

Avilio still hadn’t moved, and they were standing really close now, so much that Nero noticed that the dark circles under the youngster’s eyes were deeper than it seemed, so much that the words that came out of Avilio’s lips were nothing more than a cold whisper.

“Didn’t you say you wouldn't come here anymore?”

_So he told you?_

“I did,” he shrugged. Yes, he thought he didn’t want to see that place anymore. Two weeks before, Nero walked out of that room with an anguished and confused mind, and he didn’t want to feel like that ever again. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the younger man’s company; it was quite the opposite, actually: it was that he liked talking to him even if he didn’t talk back, that he told him things he rarely shared with anyone, it was that he was fascinated by his presence in a way he rationally thought he had to protect himself from. Avilio lived in a reality so close to his own and yet so foreign that he couldn’t make sense of it. He had seen poverty, he knew that was probably what drove someone to choose to work like that, yet that life was but a different kind of misery. And maybe he was imagining everything, maybe that was just his own way too see it, and besides it wasn’t any of his business, but the sadness he had seen in Avilio’s gaze that night struck him, and he thought he could get rid of it by just forgetting about it; yet those hazel eyes kept haunting him, like there was something about them he really couldn’t let go.

He thought about it at length, during the sleepless nights, and he knew what he wanted: he wanted to do for that stranger what he would do for a stray cat on the corner of a street, but not quite that; he wanted to do for him what he would do for a friend, but not quite that; he wanted to do for him what he would do for a brother, but not quite that either. He wanted to find him in that dark abyss he always dreamed of. It made no sense, and yet he felt a connection with him, and he was scared of that feeling — he was scared of giving it a name — but he couldn't let it go, he tried but he couldn't.

The cold night air and the thin rain from before had freshened his thoughts, but he still felt dizzy. He wasn’t that drunk to begin with, but he was confused and he felt uncomfortable sharing the reason behind that confusion with anyone besides himself. He looked around again, and the night was still, like time itself had stopped, like the city was holding its breath. His clothes were still wet from the rain, and he shivered slightly, but he wasn’t really cold.

He expected Avilio to have said something by now — he had hoped to meet him, but he didn’t actually do anything to make that happen, and since it was Avilio who approached him, maybe it was because he had something to say to him? — but the youngster just stood there, looking so alone, small and lost — with that worn-out, oversized coat that wrapped around his body like he was still a child — and yet so uninterested and aloof — his eyes wandering around the street, his mind so obviously far away, somewhere dark and impossible to reach.

“A man can change his mind,” Nero added, to continue a conversation they seemed to have dropped off a while before. Avilio didn’t show any interest in that assertion, except for a slight lifting of his eyebrows.

“Can I ask you something?” the words rolled down his tongue before Nero had thought the question through, before he even formulated it in his mind. Avilio shrugged and gave him a small nod, looking around every once in a while like he was worried someone could see them.

“Why do you work there?” that wasn't really what Nero wanted to ask. What he really wanted to know was if it was okay for him to feel like he should help him out of the life he chose for himself, if it wasn't just him being arrogant and presumptuous, if it was okay for him to feel that protective toward someone he didn’t even know — and he knew it wasn’t okay, Avilio wasn’t a child and didn’t have the attitude of someone who wanted or needed to be _saved_.

Avilio filled the distance between them, until they were a breath away from each other, and his smell — a fruity scent, underneath the cigarette and the sweat — sent Nero’s heart soaring.

“It’s not any of your fucking business,” he hissed quietly. The answer was very appropriate for both the question Nero wanted to ask and the one he actually asked, and Nero knew the answer should have been obvious from the start.

Their shoulders brushed lightly against each other as Avilio walked past him. Nero turned to watch him walk away, but he didn't say anything. What could he say? He was the one in the wrong, he was the one with what seemed more and more like an unhealthy obsession.

“You’re not my friend,” the younger man stopped while he said that, but he didn't turn. Nero though that no, they were not friends, but that didn't mean they couldn't ever be.

“You don’t want to have friends?” he asked to the other’s back, his voice a bit hesitant, as he expected another blunt non-answer, another refusal to open up.

“Look, Vanetti, we both know you’re not interested in being a friend to me.”

 _Actually, I am. And you didn't say no_.

Nero couldn't see his face, but Avilio's voice sounded less annoyed that it should have. He sounded nervous and restless instead: he tapped his fingers on his thighs like was doing the day they first met, and his voice was slightly trembling while he spoke.

“And I have somewhere to be and I can’t be late. We’ll talk next time.”

“A date at this hour?” Nero wondered out loud, realising a moment too late that he was actually voicing his thoughts.

Avilio scoffed. “It's not a date. That's for people like you.” The sentence managed to sound insolently contemptuous while at the same time bitterly sad. Nero understood what he meant with it, but he didn't agree in the least.

“You _are_ a person like me,” he maintained, voice firm and unwavering, and he wished he could look Avilio in the eyes and convince him he was as honest as it came.

Avilio stayed silent for a short while, without moving, without reacting. He just stood there, his hands in his pockets, his face looking downwards, like he was reflecting on what Nero just said, like he was deciding if it was a lie or not.

“No, I am not, and that's why I would be glad to continue this conversation while you pay for my time. See you,” Avilio said hurriedly, and he walked away.

 _See you, then_.

 _It’s not like you’re leaving me a choice_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really a good chapter to write. I loved writing Fio & Nero's interactions!  
> I hope you all liked it.
> 
> Also a big thank you to all my supporters on twitter and the anons on tumblr <3  
> You can follow me on twitter too (I'm @itsjjoy) if you want to check on my progress! :P


	7. the rift between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strega feels like something is missing.  
> Frate is an angry child- ehm, I mean _young man_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Strega's pov since we all _missed him so much_ , didn't we? :D

Strega pulled himself out of the youth’s body, his now softening cock dripping small drops of cum on the sheets. He huffed, pushing Avilio away, while the younger man barely let a whimpering sound out of his mouth. Avilio had been increasingly pliant in the last weeks: he barely resisted him, and it looked like he just didn't care about what happened to him anymore. If what Strega wanted was for his mind to give up, for his walls to come crumbling down, what he got instead was that his heart hardened even more.

The Galassia got close to him, untying the bonds securing Avilio to the bed — he had tied him out of habit, but it was a needless effort, since Avilio didn't seem to harbour any wish to fight him anymore.

Strega would never admit to it, but, while his fingers undid the knots, he felt the absence of that hateful gaze, he missed the fierceness in those hazel eyes, the fire of anger and defiance that never left Avilio since the first days they met, since he started working there. Avilio still looked him in the eyes, still hold his head high, but there was no trace of that barely tamed fury in his gaze anymore. He was just cold, his eyes like tundra, barren and empty expanses, his touch void of any warmth, his fingers brisk and careless, his movements impersonal, his voice dull and even his whimpers of pain and his rare moans of pleasure were nothing more than feeble sounds.

It wasn’t sudden, it didn’t happen right away, but it gradually came to that. It felt like Avilio was slowly but unwaveringly putting more and more distance between them, and Strega could only watch him slip away, unable to understand how to stop him, how to chase him out of his isolation, no matter how much he reached for him. He felt like the months he invested in knowing him, marking him, making him his own, were thrown away in the space of a couple of weeks, and he didn’t know what to do to take back what he thought he owned already.

When he touched him now, when his hand brushed against that pale skin he took so much pleasure in bruising and scarring, when he gripped his slim wrists, when he pulled his silky raven hair, he didn’t feel Avilio shiver anymore. And yet Strega felt that craving in himself all the same, that desperate, oppressive feeling of yearning gripped at his guts, and he wanted to possess him, to subdue him, he wanted Avilio to worship him, and he wished so hard for that to happen that he sometimes was blinded by that uncontrollable desire, that he forgot everything else.

He freed Avilio’s hands, and the young man sat on the bed, massaging his wrists slowly, face expressionless. Before he could get up, Strega gripped both his arms firmly, stopping his movement; he did it without thinking, without a precise reason. The younger man looked at him — he _finally_ looked at him, _of his own free will_ — and a bit of annoyance was there for a split second, concealed under the dark circles under his eyes, under the cold shower that was his gaze, and the Galassia couldn’t help but smirk, even if bitterly, for that brief moment of weakness he caught.

Strega pushed his arms apart, moving them out of the way to get closer to him, never averting his gaze, until their breaths merged with one another. They both stared at each other for a while, or rather it was Strega who stared into two hazel eyes that looked towards him but not _at_ him, and they might as well have been the eyes of a dead man for how hollow and vacant they looked.

Anger gripped at the older man's stomach as he asked himself _why_ — why couldn't Avilio just open up to him? He would take care of him, make him happy, he could give him a better life, _damn_ , he would give him money and power if he trusted him enough. All he asked for in return was his submission, his loyalty, his time.

He tightened his grip on the other’s forearms, he pushed him against the headboard and pressed his lips against his. Avilio struggled to push him away, and that sent a shiver down Strega’s spine — he was finally reacting, and it was like the ice surrounding him instantly started melting. Strega smirked through the one sided kiss, taking advantage of the moment in which Avilio’s lips slightly opened to push his tongue between them. The Galassia wondered how could a mouth that spewed such bitter words be so sweet, how could the ice in Avilio’s voice come from a place so soft and warm.

When the teeth of the younger man sank into his lower lip it was at the same time painful and satisfying — he tasted his own blood while he jerked back in surprise, but he smiled, because that was a reaction, because Avilio did feel something, because he was still capable to affect him. Strega loosened his grip on Avilio's wrists to wipe his own mouth, he looked at the stains of blood on his hand and his smirk grew wider; Avilio didn't move, not even to clean his own lips, his expression incomprehensible, as dull as ever.

“No kissing: that was the rule.” Avilio’s voice never wavered, not one bit, and still his words sounded awfully similar to a attempt to justify himself.

“But you don't make the rules, pet, do you?”

Avilio bit his lips, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He lowered his gaze and took a deep breath. Strega stroked his hair, slowly, then cupped his chin. He brushed his thumb against the corner of the other’s thin lips, wiping away his own blood from that pale face.

“Go wash yourself.” he whispered, standing up and walking away from him, pretending not to notice the unwanted tenderness in his own voice. He couldn't see Avilio's face, but he must have been surprised, or maybe confused, because he took a while before he answered and an unspoken question lingered in his voice.

“Yes, Master…”

******

Nero tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, asking himself how much he had to wait to leave.

He was sitting right across his brother, his uncle Ganzo on his left and his father on his right, at the head of the table; all of them were occupied in a discussion with Ronaldo, considering the measures to take against the Orcos after their continued attempts to steal away yet another piece of the Vanettis’ turf, this time a zone near the border, a key point in their imports of liquor from Canada. Once again, instead of discussing countermeasures or strategies to strike back, everyone wanted to play on the defensive. Nero wondered what was even the point of him being there when everyone just plainly ignored his suggestions.

Since the day Ronaldo joined the family and started participating in these meetings — since the day he married Fio and got the right to do that, like all it took for him to call himself one of them was an arranged marriage and some fake smiles — Nero often had to choose between openly antagonising the Galassias and being called out for that by his father, or shutting up and letting them talk it out; but when it was asked of him, he did what he thought was better in the interests of the Family, disregarding what he was told to do if he deemed it necessary. It was frustrating and maybe even a stupid way to act, but he had no intention to take responsibility for decisions he didn't agree with. It was just not like him.

“You’re not interested in the conversation, Nero?” Vincent interrupted the others, shifting the whole room’s attention on his son. Nero stopped the movements of his fingers, trying to keep his face expressionless.

“I’m listening, Father,” he lied. He had stopped listening when Ronaldo started explaining how it was because of the Vanettis’ aggressive attitude that they couldn't seem to reach an agreement with the Orcos — while it was exactly the opposite. He knew pretty well how the discussion was going, anyway. It was always the same old story: Ronaldo proposed a plan of action, but of course that plan was rarely the most convenient for the Vanettis’ interests — and Nero could bet his life that it was the best possible one for the Galassias, even if he still didn't understand what it was exactly that they were aiming to obtain; Frate always agreed with Ronaldo, and that was the part he hated the most — the fact that Frate never stopped to listen to his own brother, that he valued the input from that stranger way more than he did with anyone else's, even the father he adored so much; the Don and Ganzo would politely, often only partially, disagree and they would try to discuss and come to an agreement; Nero disagreed as well, often completely, he acted polite and tried to be patient, but over the weeks he had learnt to just keep his mouth shut at least until Ronaldo was out of the room. It was a tiring game of diplomacy, and he wasn't suited for politics and subtlety, nor he was always in the right mind for it.

Sometimes, he discussed things in private with his father afterwards — after all, the Don had the last word on every decision, and Nero didn’t need to discuss with an outsider to make his point, he only needed the Don to listen to him.

“What do you think about it?” Vincent asked, and maybe the private conversations with his son were the reason why he looked genuinely interested. Nero knew his father asked because he valued his opinion, or at least because he wanted him to understand the reason behind every decision, since he was meant to take his place someday; maybe he also wanted to test him, to make sure he could wear a smiling face through an unpleasant discussion. Usually, Nero would have been eager to show his worth, and yet, that day of all days, he wasn’t sure to be in the right mindset for all of that.

“I see no reason to be accommodating if they are aggressive. We should pay them back with their own coin,” Nero answered calmly, raising his gaze to look at Ronaldo’s smug smirk — one he would gladly punch if he could.

“Which is what you’ve been doing so far. And how has that been working out for you?” Ronaldo didn't lose a beat, and neither he lost the mocking expression on his face accompanying the condescending tone of his question.

Nero didn't even think about it before he replied: the words came out on their own, and with a tone much more annoyed that he would have used if he could hold himself back. “We could do much better, we could deliver a hard blow to them, if you just let me–”

“That's not possible,” the Galassia interrupted him, “You don't have the numbers to pull out something like that.”

Nero appreciated the honesty Ronaldo showed when he said _‘you’_ , putting himself on a different level — even if the Galassia was probably convinced he was the superior one, at least they agreed on the fact that their families should not be lumped together. That man was not a Vanetti and he never would be, and Nero still resented his father for letting him participate in their meetings.

“Besides, the Galassias are helping us with the truce, but even they can't convince Don Orco to accept it if you kill his men in the meanwhile” Frate chipped in, hesitant at first, but gaining confidence as he spoke. Ronaldo met the boy’s eyes and flashed him a pleased smile, like Frate was an obedient dog and he was promising him a treat. Nero tried to convince himself that the color on his brother’s cheek wasn't a faint blush, and that his expression when he looked away wasn't a little proud smirk; but the anger still swell in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, _they_ are _helping_ us? We can rest easy then!” he exclaimed sarcastically, and he felt even worse when Frate looked at him with what seemed like disdain. His younger brother didn't reply and all he did was look at him with an offended, maybe even angry expression. Nero wished they didn't drift so far away from each other, he wished there was a way to reach out for Frate — to bring back that innocent kid with the sweetest green eyes, who looked up at him and always asked to spend time together. He wondered how could a child like that become someone so hateful and fucked up, but he knew everyone in that room, including himself, was at fault for changing him like that.

“Might I remind you who’s to blame for all of this?” Ronaldo’s voice was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially when the words he said were so strangely fitting for his thoughts, and yet it was that voice that brought him back from his nostalgic recollections, interrupting the resentful glances he and Frate were exchanging. “I seem to recall you are the one that started the feud, Nero.”

“That’s not true!” he roared, standing up from his chair, definitively blowing his good intentions all to hell. He was tired to keep having to explain himself, to repeat that he didn’t start anything, that he just did what anyone else in the mafia would do, and yet he was prepared to do it again if the alternative was letting Ronaldo win. “It was t–”

“Nero, Ronaldo and Frate have a point.” Vincent Vanetti’s voice was perfectly calm, even when he raised it above those of the others in the room. He looked at his sons as he did when they were kids and argued over who would get to play with a certain toy first. But they weren’t kids and they weren’t discussing about toys, and Nero just wished his own father would take his side for once, at least on that matter. But of course, they had a point and he was the one in the wrong. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and for a moment he considered sitting back and letting them talk, but the prospect of having to listen through the argument that would follow what had just happened was nerve-wracking at best.

“Can I be excused, Father? I don't have anything else to say.” He gave up. Sometimes he was allowed to run away from things, wasn’t he?

Still sitting at the head of the table, Vincent gave him a reproachful look, but then he nodded, and Nero felt like a huge load was just lifted from his shoulder.

******

Sitting out on the porch, Nero was smoking a cigarette, trying to push away from his mind all the thoughts that led him to the room upstairs in which the meeting probably still went on without him. It was the second time something like that happened, that everyone discussed things without him, and he felt frustrated at the idea that it had come to that in the end, that he let Ronaldo drive him away, that he let him win.

Huffing the smoke out, he looked at the darkening sky and he let his thoughts wander away from there; once again he found himself thinking back to what Avilio said the night before, to how self-pitiful he looked and acted, and how much it affected him. He thought back to the stupid way he was acting in every aspect of his life, how he always kept his defences up, even when his friends were around, and how those defences came crumbling down twice already, when that particular pair of hazel eyes stared at him, so cold and unforgiving and yet magnetic. And he wished the walls inside him collapsed right in that moment, he wished they freed him of all the worries, duties and faults that held him back, that reminded him that he was not allowed to live for himself alone, that reminded him of who he was and what responsibilities he had to bear. Those barriers never broke, no matter how much he struggled, how much he sacrificed, how much he run away, how much he drank.

And yet Avilio — someone he had never met before, someone he was never _meant_ to meet — tore them down with one indifferent look: of course he was scared of him.

And of course he wanted to see him again.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon, and at that point, he didn’t really want to wait for the meeting to end anymore. They could sum it up to him the next day.

He went back inside to take his coat, the entrance hall of the mansion empty as always, but, while he walked back towards the door, Frate’s voice made him stop three steps away from it.

“You’re going out again?” he sounded more mad than worried, but Nero couldn’t tell from just his voice if he was honest, if he was trying to act angry, or if the concern was the pretense instead. Either way, the irritation he worked so hard to chase away came back stronger than before.

“Do I have to ask for permission to my little brother?” he challenged, turning to look at him.

“That’s not what I meant,” huffed the young man, passing a hand through his blonde locks in a nervous gesture.

Frate looked tired, and in his eyes there was nothing of the kid he should have been at his age. Nero tried to remember himself not so many years before, when he was the one trying for the first time to find his place in that world, one in which you could not afford to be a child for long. When he compared the two of them, he realised that his little brother had it easier, that he never had to kill anyone, not yet at least. He was unsure about how that made him feel, hesitant to admit whether the warmth he felt was jealousy or a small and bitter solace at the idea that Frate had been spared the experience. Remembering how difficult it was to live one’s teenage years among crime and violence, how Frate must have been struggling with himself exactly as he had before him, he softened his tone and sweetened his voice.

“Then what do you mean?” he asked with a sigh, and he looked him straight in the eyes; he hoped Frate understood that he wanted to listen to him, that he cared, that despite how much they fought he still looked at him as someone he wanted to help and protect.

“You’re always neglecting your duties. How can you take Father’s place if you never take things seriously?” the boy pouted, his tone half accusing, half complaining, like he was whining about some prank Nero had played on him rather than lecturing him. And it burned, it burned so much that those words were coming from the same mouth that would praise him not so many years before.

“I do take things seriously, Frate–” he tried to explain himself, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the boy’s expression turned from a childish pout to a serious angry look, like whatever it was that he was trying to mask and hold inside just burst out, and he raised his voice above Nero’s, cutting his sentence like his word didn’t mean anything, and they probably didn’t, after all.

“You do? You always spend your nights out drinking! That’s the only thing you take seriously! Do you think I don’t know that you were out all night and you only came back this morning? And now you’re going out again? You’re an irresponsible and a drunkhard!”

 _What am I supposed to do?_ Nero really wanted to know if they would have liked him better if he spent his time feeling sorry for myself, thinking he was a failure, blaming himself for every misstep, for every mistake. It was not like he didn’t feel guilty, but he had his ways to cope. Wasn’t he allowed _at least_ that?

“I don’t think I care for your attitude, Frate. And I have no intention to stay here and let a kid lecture me,” he replied coldly, turning away and filling the distance between himself and the door in a pair of quick steps.

“I’m not a kid!” hissed the boy while Nero opened the door, his voice louder as he went on. “You’re the childish one who plays with other people’s lives! You’re the one who put Vanno in danger!”

By the time he said that last sentence he was outright yelling, and Nero froze on the threshold, watching his little brother struggle to hold back his tears, unable to do anything about it, with no idea of what would be the right thing to say, no idea if, knowing what the right thing was, he would chose to say it or not.

“Don’t you dare blame me for that!” he screamed back instead, and he wished Vanno was there to say what he didn’t say; Vanno knew how to calm Frate down, how to calm both of them down; he was straightforward but kind, he had that composure about him that made everyone feel at ease, like there was nothing to fear. But Vanno was far away, and they hadn’t talked in weeks, and even if Barbero kept telling him that he didn’t have to worry, that he talked to him on the phone and he was fine, Nero worried all the same. And he missed him, and he knew his brother and his sister missed him as well.

“Well, too late, ‘cause I already do!” Frate replied, and his voice was cold while he dried the tears at the corner of his eyes, while he turned on his heels and left him there, staring at the crack between them getting wider and wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.: Don't worry Nero, Ronaldo is totally not fucking both your sister and your brother... That's just your imagination...

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompt:**  
>  Strega Galassia runs the family brothel. Angelo sells his body for money. Strega owns him, and is an abusive pimp, but Angelo doesn't really care much about anything. He doesn't mind selling his body but he doesn't understand what's so special about sex, since he doesn't feel much when he has it.  
> Nero ends up in the brothel because of a bet, pays for a night with a man, but wants to spend his time just talking to him, much to Angelo's dismay.  
> Nero falls in love.  
> Angelo doesn't. Yet.  
> And when Strega finds out that Angelo _could_ be starting to feel affection for a client, he gets very angry.
> 
> (secondary couples are appreciated too, especially Fango/Serpente and Frate/Ronaldo)


End file.
